


Of Fathers and Fevers

by CoffeeQuill



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Yoda Acquisition, Adopted Children, Adorable Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV), Descriptions of Sickness, Families of Choice, Fatherhood, Found Family, Mando'a, Parenthood, Sick Character, Sickfic, Sickness, Single Parents, written while sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeQuill/pseuds/CoffeeQuill
Summary: When the kid falls sick, it takes Din an embarrassingly long time to realize it.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 384





	Of Fathers and Fevers

**Author's Note:**

> Today I suffered a hangover after binge drinking at a stressful family event. I also have a fever and had a dream about this. So here's a story loosely based off a fever dream. It may make sense, it may not. It might be cute, it might be all over the place. I'll find out when I feel better.
> 
> Come chat on the [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N) and follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)

When Din becomes sick, he’s miserable. It never matters, though. He feels like death, feels an ache down to his bones, his stomach churns with every step and sometimes he has to stop and steady himself against a wall as he breathes in and out, willing his stomach to calm and his mouth to stop tingling.

But he can’t stop.

He couldn’t before. Never. Not when he had a whole covert to care for, to protect, to feed and fund. Even when he couldn’t keep as much as a bite down, when his own body rebelled against him, he had to keep hunting. Wash, rinse, repeat. Take some bounties, hunt them down, and come back for offload and new pucks.

Even when he has to rush through a meeting with Karga to make sure he doesn’t get sick again in front of the Guild.

He could never afford to lose a bounty. He couldn’t afford the low level hunts that Karga offered, not when they weren’t worth the gas and time. He had to return to the covert with money, with supplies, and he had to keep the _Razor Crest_ flying. His people counted on him. They trusted him. That he wouldn’t let them starve.

When he stole the kid, it became even more imperative.

He couldn’t slow down. He had to stay sharp. Even when he was hurt by the Mudhorn. Even when he became sick on Sorgan, after eating bad krill -- and Omera had apologized for that for days as if it had been anyone’s intention. There was no resting when someone depended on you for survival. Not even when death felt like a better option against feeling so terrible.

When Din laid in bed, feeling like death was a better option, the kid had stared at him from the doorway with big, sad eyes as if he could sympathize, until Winta swept him away -- and he’d been powerless to protect the kid, only able to rely on Omera and Cara to step in.

Din knows how to push through illness. He’s been through it. He knows the agony of a gunfight as chills rack his body.

But now, Moff Gideon is dead.

It’s been a month since they’ve taken off on their own, and no one has come after them.

For a short time, Din feels like he can relax.

He gets sick quickly after Nevarro, and it just feels like _his_ luck. His head aches and he’s shivering, and he chalks it up to a weakened immune system after so much stress packed into a short period of time. He lets the _Crest_ drift and lays in his cot, giving in to sleep, wrapping a blanket tight around him.

When he wakes up, there are two toys next to him, resting by his hip. The kid’s toys. Din blinks, then sets them on the ground beside the cot and turns over, closing his eyes again.

He wakes again, some hours later, to a warmth at his shoulder.

He turns to see the kid curled up at his shoulder, and though he breathes soft and slow, he isn’t asleep; rather, he stares right back at Din, and when Din looks at him his expression lights up. _“Durbbbbha!”_ he shrieks, the sound devolving into a raspberry. If it’s a word, Din doesn’t know it. He reaches a hand up and sets two fingers against the kid’s back.

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“Burhgabaal maaa!” the kid continues. He gets up, standing beside Din’s helmet, and puts two hands against Din’s pauldron. “Falab!”

Din wonders if he’s trying to speak Basic. He’s making noises that resemble Basic, although its more shriek-y and growl-y than normal. Or it’s his own species’ language, and one Din hasn’t heard or wouldn’t know. _Was he with his own people long enough to learn to speak?_

He has no way of knowing.

The kid pulls on the pauldron. It’s strapped on tight and barely budges. The child looks at Din and frowns, then makes another shriek. “Bacebuuuuuum!”

To Din, it’s just gibberish.

“No,” he says. “I’m sick. I need to sleep it off.”

The kid looks at him and lets go, but he’s still leaning and he falls back on the cot, sitting as he stares at Din. He makes another noise, just a blend of sounds.

“Sleep,” Din repeats. “Sleep.”

The kid frowns at him. His head tilts to the side, his ears drooping. Then he makes a soft noise and then moves back over, sitting between Din’s helmet and his pauldron. Then, he lays down, curling up there.

Din watches him. He coughs, then pulls up the blanket. He draws it over himself and makes sure that it covers the kid, too, and the child squirms a little big closer before making a sound thats something like a purr.

They fall asleep together, and Din is healthy again in just two days.

When the kid falls sick, it takes Din an embarrassingly long time to realize it.

The kid becomes quiet. He usually is, but there’s a fair share of noises made as he plays with his toys and this time Din can hear neither noise nor playing. He finally grows concerned and sets the ship to autopilot, venturing down beneath and into the cargo hold.

The kid is nowhere to be seen. He feels a stab of concern in his chest but the door to the storage compartment where the boy sleeps is still closed. The child usually gets himself up when he hears Din. Frowning to himself, Din walks forward and opens the door.

The child is curled up tightly, drowning in both his oversized clothing and blankets. He’s shivering and sniffling when Din looks down at him, and only one eye and an ear peek out at him.

“Bada-vaaa,” the kid whines, his eyes falling shut again.

 _Oh,_ Din thinks, guilt immediately hitting him.

He reaches in and scoops the kid into his arms, and without hesitation, the kid presses up against his armor. He’s breathing through his mouth, snot dried around his nose even as more leaks, and he feels hot. Din’s stomach twists.

He could’ve gotten the kid sick.

How does his species deal with illness?

For not the first time, Din is struck with the realization that he doesn’t know nearly enough about who this kid is and where he comes from. His species isn’t in any database that he can access, and he’s got no friends who might have more information. No one knows what the hell the child _is._

Do they deal with sickness easily? Are their immune systems strong or weak? They must _have_ an immune system, because the fever and runny nose are immune responses, right? Are they actually exposed to any illness on their home planet? Has the kid ever been sick before? Is human illness something they can fight off or has Din accidentally, essentially, killed him?

“It’s okay,” he whispers, taking a deep breath. These thoughts are terrifying and making him feel worse. “It’s okay. Alright. I’ve got you.”

He overcame his sickness quickly, but he has no idea about what to expect for the kid.

The child squirms a bit but seems content in Din’s arms. Din walks to the ‘fresher and grabs a wipe, cleaning away the running snot and trying to gently get rid of what’s dried. The kid whimpers and turns his face away.

“Come on,” Din says. “You’re messy, you’ll feel better clean.”

“Maa-nah!” the kid whines, kicking both feet, and one heel strikes against Din. Din sighs and walks to the cot. He kneels down in front of it and places the kid on the edge, holding him up.

“Let me clean your face,” he says, “and you’ll feel better. Then you can sleep for as long as you want, okay?”

The baby looks at him. It’s clear he understands, because he looks at the wipe with trepidation. “Bashja,” he says, his ears drooping and eyes wet with tears.

“It hurts a little because it’s dried. But I’ll be as gentle as I can, okay?” Din says. The boy stares at him. He isn’t very trusting with this.

But then he nods and just squeezes his eyes shut.

Din takes it as permission and gently takes the child’s face with his fingers, beginning to wipe at what’s dried there. He receives a few whimpers, and his face scrunches when the mucus painfully flakes off. But Din gets it all and gives a final wipe to his face and around his mouth before leaning back. “There,” he says. “Clean.”

The child sniffles and holds his arms out.

Din tossed the wipe aside and takes the boy into his arms again, then wraps him up tight with the blanket and cradles him. Again, the kid burrows against him as close as he can, and Din rubs his back.

He climbs into the cockpit, the bundle in one arm.

He settles back into the pilot’s chair, looking out at the stars. He leans back and continues to rub the child’s back, making smooth circles and pressing firm without bruising. The kid certainly isn’t made of glass, but Din still feels nervous of handling him roughly. Even during the damn jailbreak, Mayfield had dropped the kid and he’d been fine.

With one foot planted on the floor, he swivels the chair one way and then the other, slow and controlled. He’d recently made the discovery of chairs specifically made to rock and sway children to sleep, something that they certainly didn’t have in the covert—although the idea does light some sort of memory in his head. He supposes his mother must’ve rocked him, and that’s where the memory surfaces from. He doesn’t have such a chair, and that’s a luxury item he can’t splurge on.

So, he makes use of the pilot chair’s swivel and it seems to work. When he stops, the kid's calm and asleep against his chest, face turned in and wrapped tight.

Din runs a finger along his cheek. He doesn’t stir, but he’s burning hot even as he’s snuggled in tight among the blankets. Din frowns and adjusts him, content to wait until he wakes again.

Wrangling a sick baby, Din decides, is the worst thing in the galaxy.

They try a normal dinner—only the kid turns away at most of the pieces offered, shaking his head with a firm _“Mm-mm!”_ and instead hiding his face in Din’s arm. Din does manage to coax a few pieces into him, and it feels like a victory—up until those pieces make a reappearance.

_Ugh._

The kid is a sniffling, sweating mess, who finally begins to look cold even when he tugs on his blanket. When it seems like he won’t be sick again, Din tosses aside the blanket and instead brings him to the ‘fresher, where he places him in the shower to get clean again.

The child wails. He doesn’t like the vibrations of the shower, as painless as it is, but Din has no water on the ship that isn’t used for the machinery or needed for laundry. He’s clean in a matter of moments, though, and Din has to hold him tightly until his tears stop and he can wipe his face again.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Shh, _ad’ika._ It’s alright. I know. It’s uncomfortable. I have you.”

Soon the boy has settled and Din sets aside his robe to wash. He wraps him instead in the blanket and cradles him, bringing him against his chest, and sighs. He doesn’t have a water shower, not one where he can turn up hot water and let the ‘fresher steam. It would help the child’s congestion.

He has memories of the Fighting Corps — young Mandalorians, foundlings or born to it, packed together. When kids were sick, they were quickly isolated to not spread it further, and locked into a sauna for a set amount of time. It was hell, and Din remembers lying on the bench in a steamed room at 14 years old, sweat dripping off his bare skin in buckets. It seemed to go on forever until he was pulled out and allowed to shower. But he could always breathe easier after.

The Mandalorians weren’t gentle in their tactics, but they were effective. He doesn’t have steam or the desire to force the kid into that. So they’ll have to manage another way.

The kid is still teary eyed but he’s starting to become sleepy again. Din is relieved; he can sleep and Din can fly them somewhere. Good food would help, but all he has is ration bars and nothing the kid actually enjoys. Din walks to the cot and gently lays the child down beside the pillow, his head resting on its edge.

Din turns towards the ladder.

_“Banabab!”_

He looks back. The kid is staring at him with a _miserable_ expression, snot continuing to drip and a yellowness to his features. He holds an arm out.

“Hey,” Din says. He steps back and sits on the edge of the cot, setting a hand on the child’s front. He gently rubs side to side on his chest. “I’m right here. I need to fly the ship, but I’ll be just up there. Okay?”

The kid stares at him. His ears flatten and soon his eyes begin to close, rocked about by Din’s motions. It seems calming, and his eyes fall shut.

Then, his breathing evens, still through his mouth.

Din slowly moves his hand away. Then, he gets off the cot, and steps towards the ladder.

The kid doesn’t wake.

Din breathes a sigh of relief and climbs into the cockpit.

He’s considering Sorgan. Surely Omera could handle a sick toddler, unlike Din, who is starting to question why the Armorer let him walk out of the sewers as a _father_ to a living thing.

He’s woken twice during sleep. The first time, the kid is whimpering after a fever dream, clearly distressed by something. He climbs up onto Din and curls up there, sniffling and crying, until Din wakes and pulls him close. He finally goes to sleep again, only once Din pets his back and hums a simple tune. He doesn’t know if it’s the song or the vibration from his chest that puts the boy to sleep.

The second time, it’s another nightmare, and again Din has to soothe him to sleep, the kid again falling asleep on top of him. This time, Din doesn’t fall back asleep.

The next day cycle, Din lands at the nearest civilized planet. Though the child doesn’t like it, Din won’t leave him alone on the ship, and so he’s forced to wrap the kid tight in a blanket and place him in a makeshift bag. The kid whimpers but doesn’t make a racket.

The trip is quick and painless. Din walks into the town’s bazaar and the child is quiet. He buys several cartons of soup broth and more drinking water, spending more than he would like but it’ll be helpful for both of them during sickness. With the supplies in tow, they journey back to the ship, and Din is quick to work.

Once they’re sealed in the ship, he sets a pot of broth to boil and lets the kid lie on the cot. He watches Din with sleepy eyes as the water pack is torn open and Din takes out a small bottle, twisting it open.

“Here,” Din murmurs. He comes over to the bed and brings the bottle to the kid’s mouth. “Sip a bit. There--good boy.”

The kid takes a few sips. He pauses a moment, then reaches a hand out to grasp the bottle and sips more eagerly, beginning to gulp it down. Din lets him, then pulls it away. “Easy,” he says. “You need some broth, too. Small sips.”

The kid looks at Din, then begins to take smaller sips.

Soon the broth is boiling and Din takes it off, letting it cool again. Once it’s good, he slips off the helmet. The child coos. Din gives him a slight smile, then takes the pot and places it at the small table he has. He takes the kid and sits, then stirs the broth before scooping a spoonful. “Here.”

The kid stares at the spoon, then leans forward and sniffs. He leans back and his ears twitch before opening his mouth. Din feeds it to him and the kid smacks his lips, then swallows. He opens his mouth again.

 _Great._ He doesn’t know if it means the kid has his appetite again or if broth is just something easy.

He manages to get several spoonfuls of broth and then some into the kid, along with more water. Din has the rest of the broth for himself, then whatever water the kid loses interest in. Once again, the child is sniffly and sleepy, and Din can relax, knowing that he isn’t starving the kid.

It takes two more days of the same routine before the fever breaks and the kid starts to regain energy. He looks less yellow and more of the usual green, which is an incredible relief. This time, when he wakes Din, it’s with an energy to play rather than the tears of a nightmare.

 _“Mar’e, ad’ika,”_ Din says, sitting up as the toddler makes a break for his forgotten toys. _“Mar’e.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Mando'a:  
> Ad'ika - little one/son/daughter  
> Mar'e -- at last! (expression of relief)
> 
> Come chat on the [discord](https://discord.gg/UwZuG6N) and follow me on [tumblr](https://coffee-quill.tumblr.com/)


End file.
